“I wanted to complete my degree. To prove”—to Gray, tomyself—“that I could. That I’m not some...”
“Creative parasite?” Maeve supplied.
I flinched. Nodded.
“The purpose of this program is to prepare you to write. What we can’t teach you is what to say. Most of our graduates do other work in order to make a living. They write reviews or features for magazines. They get jobs in publishing or public relations. Some do technical writing.” A smile flickered so briefly I might have imagined it. “Some of us teach. I simply want you to understand the trade-offs involved. Before you decide to accept Oscar’s offer, think carefully about what you want.”
“Tim—someone I know—told me I don’t know what I want.”
Maeve scowled. “Think harder. Why do you write?”
I drew a deep breath. I told stories to make myself feel better, to make sense of a world where mothers disappeared and the landscape changed and the people you encountered weren’t always what they seemed. I wrote because stories were my escape and solace, and I wanted to believe in the happy endings they held out like hope.Tell yourself a story often enough, and it will come true.
But I wanted more. To be heard. To be seen. To belong.
“I want to tell my own stories,” I blurted. “Under my own name.”
Maeve smirked. “You have a lot of work to do, then.”
—
I couldn’t wait to see Tim to tell him I was staying for the summer after all. In my mind, this was a simple discussion. We were together every night. It was a short step to moving in with him.
I had never lived with Gray. No matter what I did to make myself a necessary part of his life, he had always kept me on the periphery. But Tim was different. I trusted Tim. Our schedules were compatible. We shared friends. (Well, at least one friend. Reeti.) We had common interests—board games, cooking shows, and sex. We both loved sex.
I hummed as I did the shopping for dinner. It wasn’t until I slid the pork chops from the oven that I realized I had made Gray’s favorite dinner—my default man-pleasing meal. But then Tim came up behind me, giving my bottom an absent pat, and the casual affection of the gesture, his complete lack of awareness, melted me.
“Can I toss the salad?” he offered. Which was more than Gray had ever done.
“Already made.” I kissed his cheek, handing him the bowl from the refrigerator. This is what it would be like, I thought with a happy skip of heart. Sharing chores, meals, a bed, a life with him. “Can you carry this through to the table?”
We sat down to eat.
“This looks delicious.” Tim’s gaze traveled to the candles, the place mats, the cheery gerbera daisies I’d purchased at a flower stall on Grafton Street because they matched my mood. He smiled. “You must have had a good meeting with your supervisor today.”
It was the perfect opening. “I did.”
“What did she say?”
I fiddled with my napkin. It wasn’t as easy to get the words out as I’d thought. “Well, I went in to ask her if I could finish my dissertation remotely.”
His knife paused above his plate. “Because you’re leaving.”
“Actually, we decided I don’t have to. At least, not right away.” I smiled brightly. “I told Oscar no.”
Tim sliced into his pork chop. “Good.”
I blinked. “I thought you were a fan.”
“I am.” He cut his meat the British way, keeping his knife and fork in his hands, eating one bite at a time. “But it’s time for you to live your own life.”
“Why don’t you get on with your own life?” Gray had said.
I choked.
“All right?” Tim asked, concerned.
“Great.” I smiled harder. Took another glug of wine, a very nice rosé that tasted, I was sure, like whatever rosé was supposed to taste like. This was the part where, with only a little encouragement, he would ask me to move in with him.
